The Hinge

The coffee made my fingers start to shake,

so I turned my hand to watch the inner blue.

There’s a map of every choice I didn't make

running underneath the skin, thin and true.

Where the watch strap leaves a pale, white ghost,

the tendons work like cables on a crane.

It’s the part of me that’s frightened the most,

exposed and soft and sensitive to rain.

I press a thumb against the jumping vein

and feel the engine laboring inside.

A little bit of pressure, a little bit of strain,

and there’s nowhere left for all that blood to hide.